


the scar i can't reverse (the more it heals, the worse it hurts)

by EverythingButTheKitchenSink (ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding)



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Butterfly Effect, Flashbacks, M/M, Multiple Timelines, POV Minho (Maze Runner), POV Newt (Maze Runner), POV Thomas (Maze Runner), Time Travel, Timelines, movie-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvisHasLeftTheBuilding/pseuds/EverythingButTheKitchenSink
Summary: Thomas wakes up in an old nightmare, surrounded by the dead, with memories that don't make sense crammed into his head. Faced with Newt's ghost come back to haunt him, all the while struggling to hold onto his sanity, he does what he always does when things become too much to handle.He runs.After five years, Newt doesn't think they're ever getting out of the Glade. But then the Box brings up a new Greenie - a Greenie who seems to recognize Newt, who still has his memories, scrambled through they are.The Greenie might be their ticket out of here. And for the first time in years, Newt lets himself hope.Minho is told that the new Greenie is crazy.But Minho also had a front-row seat as the Greenie picked a fight with a Griever and won.So whatever brand of crazy the Greenie is on? Minho thinks they need more of it....Alternately, the TMR time travel fic.
Relationships: Minho & Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minho & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	the scar i can't reverse (the more it heals, the worse it hurts)

**Author's Note:**

> You can also check out my other TMR fic - the 'impossible' series.
> 
> XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this fic involves multiple timelines. The story starts in Timeline 4. Italics are flashbacks of Timelines 1-3. After the first few chapters, it should be clear which flashback belongs to which timeline. Or maybe not. If there is any confusion, feel free to drop a comment!
> 
> Secondly, Thomas is sent into the Maze two years later and everyone is aged-up. This is where the 'butterfly effect' tag comes in. As in, Thomas actually gets his memories back when he's 17, but then enough things changed that he's not sent into the Maze at the canon time.
> 
> This is not done on a whim, and is actually PLOT-driven - said plot-driven reasons will be revealed in time.
> 
> Be patient. Good things come to those who wait.
> 
> Now onwards!
> 
> Enjoy!

_Thomas remembers dying._

_He is thirty-nine years old, and it’s a miracle that he’s even survived this long._

_At night, the cold mountain air drops to freezing temperatures, turning the blood in his veins to sludge, numbing the feeling in his fingers, and misting the breath in front of his face. Adrenaline keeps his body moving as he scrambles up the steep slope, spine bent low as he tries to blend in with the shadows._

_Behind him, something goes up in flames, the orange-colored smoke from the explosion pluming up in a miniature mushroom cloud that lights up the starless night sky. He pauses at the top of the ridge, catching his breath, turning for one last look down at the campsite._

_WCKD soldiers leap from choppers and Bergs, swarming down into the valley. They’re met with resistance – the men and woman under Thomas’s command (widows and orphans and those who volunteered to stay behind, those who have nothing left to lose and nothing left to live for)._

_Their job is to hold WCKD back, whatever the cost. To stall them. To be the distraction. To buy time for Vince to lead the rest of the Right Arm out of range, for Thomas to get to the detonator and do what needs to be done._

_It’s a suicide mission. They all know they will die here._

_If WCKD doesn’t manage to kill them, the explosive mines will. Or the landslide._

_“Hey!”_

_Two WCKD soldiers have noticed him trying to slink away. Thomas shoots them both cleanly in the head, but their shouts have drawn attention. Thomas scrambles up over the ridge and throws himself down onto the ground, so hard he tastes grit on his tongue. Against his back, he feels the wall of hard earth shudder from the impact of multiple bullets._

_He props up his semi-auto, angles the barrel downward, then presses down on the trigger and fires blindly. He’s rewarded with shouts of pain, and the hail of gunfire ceases momentarily. He pushes himself up to a crouch, covers his head with his arms, and gets ready to make a run for it –_

_When a hand shoves him face-first to the ground again._

_“Stay down!”_

_Thomas spits out a mouthful of mud. “Jorge?”_

_His adopted father yanks a pin from a grenade and lets it roll downhill. They take cover, bracing themselves against the outcropping of rock. The explosion sends a spray of misty red blood into the air, the impact rattling Thomas’s teeth. He gags and shuts his mouth, carefully breathing only through his nose._

_“I thought I told you to leave!” Thomas says, incensed._

_Jorge hauls him to his feet and they break into a run. “That tone might work on Vince, but it’s much less effective on someone who did the cleaning up after you peed your bed when you were seven.”_

_“Less talking, more shooting!”_

_They get to Bertha, putting their backs against the car. WCKD soldiers are right on their tail, Thomas can hear their heavy footsteps, hear their legs crash clumsily through the scraggly vegetation hugging the mountainside._

_“Get behind the wheel,” Thomas says. “You drive. I shoot.”_

_“ **You** get behind the wheel,” Jorge says mutinously._

_“I’m the better shot.”_

_“Remember who taught you how to shoot, boy?”_

_A squad of six men crests the hill. In unison, Thomas and Jorge raise their guns – the former aims at the three in the back while the latter shoots the three in front._

_“It’s the teacher’s greatest achievement when their students surpass them,” Thomas says solemnly. “Or some rubbish like that.” He walks around Bertha and opens the door to the front passenger seat. “Besides, remember who taught me how to drive?”_

_Grumbling, Jorge gets behind the wheel and they trundle up the mountain along the twisting narrow road. Thomas keeps his gun ready, peering out through the gap of the passenger window, the glass long replaced by thin sheets of bullet-proof metal. Periodically, he looks down at the watch strapped to his wrist – the steady red numbers counting down from 15:00._

_“You should have left with Vince.” Thomas can’t summon up much anger. What’s done is done. Vince is long gone. The clock is ticking. The last thing he wants to do is to spend his last moments alive picking a fight with one of the few people he loves._

_Jorge looks ahead at the road, trickily moving Bertha around a bumpy corner, rolling tires dislodging loose rock. A muscle in his white-stubbled jaw ticks._

_“There’s a word in Sanskrit,” Jorge says. “ **Vilomah** – it means ‘against the natural order’… but it has another meaning – ‘a parent who’s lost their children'.” He looks over at Thomas, who finds it hard to meet his gaze. “Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children, Thomas. I should have died a long time ago.” He lifts one hand from the steering wheel and squeezes Thomas’s shoulder. “The only reason I held on was for you.”_

_Thomas looks away. Eyes stinging with unshed tears. Old grief welling up inside his chest. He’s glad is too dark for Jorge to see his face._

_“We’re here.” Jorge pulls the vehicle to a stop. He pats Bertha’s dashboard fondly. “One last ride, old girl.”_

_The crumbling trail has narrowed to a point where they have to get out and make the rest of the journey on foot. They trudge up the steep slope, scree and loose pebbles occasionally making them lose their footing. The air thins, and soon enough Thomas starts to clutch a stitch in his side._

_At last, they reach a cave opening in the cliffside – a crack in the smooth rock. A crevice barely big enough for them to squeeze into. Inside is a wide chamber with a low ceiling and craggy walls, with tunnels leading off deeper into the mountain._

_“A big red button.” Jorge approaches the detonator – a large cylindrical device with steel rings and wires trailing off into the tunnels. “I’ve always wanted to push a big red button.”_

_“At least someone is getting what they want today,” Thomas says, sitting down ungracefully. The ceiling is low enough that he has to stoop when he stands._

_Jorge settles down next to him. “In the Second World War, the Japanese army had Kamikaze pilots – they loaded their planes with bombs then crashed them into enemy territory. They killed themselves, but they took out a lot of the enemy, too.”_

_Jorge’s brown skin is crowded with wrinkles. He has a head full of thick hair gone completely white. He’s one of the oldest members of the Right Arm. Older than Vince, even. Old enough to remember the world before WCKD. Before the Flare._

_He was an endless source of bedtime stories when Thomas was younger and Brenda was still alive._

_The only source of illumination is the glowing red letters at Thomas’s wrist. Together, they watch the numbers tick down until it reaches zero._

_They can’t contact Vince, not without risking WCKD piggybacking their frequency and figuring out what they’re up to. They can’t wait any longer either, otherwise they’d risk WCKD’s army leaving the blast range. All they can do is hope that Vince and the rest of the Right Arm escaped in time._

_Thomas puts a hand over the big red button. “For Brenda?”_

_Jorge’s hand joins his. “For Brenda.”_

_They press the button together._

Most of the Gladers have gathered around the Box by the time the Greenie alarm stops sounding, packed together like sardines. The newer Gladers are crowded at the front, jostling and elbowing each other for more space. The older boys (and can they even be called _boys_ any longer? Alby must be at least twenty-one now, and the rest of the Keepers almost that) idle at the back of the group, expressions equal parts bored and impatient.

Newt shoulders his way to the front to stand next to Gally. The thick metal lid swings open. Jim and Wyck, two of Frypan’s Cooks, grab hold of the rusting grates and pull them open. In a moment of eerie synchronization, the Gladers all lean in, eager to see the new Greenie. Newt does as well, curious despite himself.

Sprawled in the middle of their monthly supply is the unstirring form of their newest Greenie, tangled in a pile of thick rope. He’s unconscious – must have passed out during the ride up. It’s happened once or twice before – with Peter, then later Dmitri. Better than the ones who Klunked themselves.

Already, the Gladers are murmuring among themselves. Some of them even start to wander off, looking disappointed at missing out on a spectacle.

Gally leaps down and crouches over the Newbie. Newt is only half paying attention, mind already going back to the Gardens and their latest batch of leafy crops, and reminding himself to talk with Zart about changing up the composition of their fertilizer –

Gally straightens up with a muffled swearword. “I think he’s dead!”

And Newt’s attention snaps back like a rubber band snapping back into shape. As the rest of the Gladers descend into a cacophony of shocked noises, Newt ungainly drops down into the Box, mindful of his bad leg, and bends over the Greenie’s body, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Gally has backed away from the body, looking afraid to touch it.

“He has a pulse!” Newt calls up to Alby, whose shoulders slump in evident relief.

“Med-jacks!” Alby says. “Clint! Jeff!”

A weak pulse, fluttering all too faintly against Newt’s fingers, but a pulse nonetheless. Now that Newt knows the Greenie is alive, he takes a moment to look him over.

His hair is brown. And he’s on the older side, maybe a little younger than Newt himself, nineteen years old maximum. He’s skinny, and not the way Newt himself is naturally slender. The Greenie looks half-starved, his body all bone and skin, eyes sunken into his skull.

Gally’s mistake is understandable. The Greenie certainly _looks_ dead.

Jeff crouches down at the lip of the Box, rapping his knuckles against the sides to get their attention. “Get him up here. And be gentle about it.”

Newt hauls himself back up as Gally and a few of his Builders untangle the Greenie’s limbs from the rope and carry him out of the Box. In the light of the sun, the Newbie looks even worse than before – his wrists and cheekbones even bonier, his skin even more bloodless, his veins blue and standing out starkly against his skin.

“Shuck,” Zart says. “This poor shank looks like he’s been through the wringer.”

It’s about this point that Alby gets sick of the gawkers loitering around and declares, “Alright, everyone back to work! You know the rules – no slackers!”

His order immediately becomes a moot point because the Greenie chooses that moment to let out a half-strangled scream and jackknife upright.

“Whoa!” Jeff says. “Lie back down, Greenie. You’re safe-”

“Get off me!” he yells, slapping Jeff’s hands away and kicking out at anyone who steps close to him. “Don’t touch me!”

“Just relax, Greenie!” Gally says.

Newt wants to groan and put his head in his hands because Gally – built like a wall and towering an entire head over most of the Gladers, not to mention his ever-present scowl – is precisely the worst person to be trying to calm someone down.

Sure enough, the Greenie snarls and scuttles back from him. He looks like a cornered animal – a wild one. Not so much scared as ready to attack at a moment’s notice.

“Calm down.” Newt puts on his most soothing tone and drops to one knee, even as the motion makes pain shoot up his bad leg. He tries to seem as harmless and nonthreatening as possible.

For a moment, he thinks it’s working because the Greenie looks at him and goes still, the cornered-animal look slipping off his face.

Then he says, “Newt?”

There’s a rippling motion among the Gladers as they switch from staring at the Newbie to staring at Newt. Newt is only peripherally aware of this because he can’t bring himself to stop staring at the Newbie. He feels as stunned as if someone has swept his legs out from underneath him and knocked him flat onto his back, all the air rushing out of his lungs.

Newt manages to unstick his throat, and asks, “You know me?”

But the younger boy is shaking his head, white-faced and wild-eyed. “No, no, no…” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re dead. I can’t-” His eyes leave Newt’s face and rove over the crowd, seeking out random faces. His face is grey. “We’re all supposed to be dead!”

Then he makes a run for it.

Newt sees it happen – the tensing of the Greenie’s arms, the wild look in his eyes distilling into a single impulsive need. Fight or Flight. Newt reaches out, his fingers snagging against the Newbie’s shirt, but the Newbie yanks himself free, shoves his way through the throng of bodies ringed tightly around him, and breaks into a sprint.

He’s faster than he looks.

Newt picks himself up, brushing dirt and bits of grass from his clothes. He’s hyperaware of the looks he’s getting from the rest of the Gladers. Even Alby is staring at him, discomfited. No one makes a move to go after the Greenie – they’ve had Newbies making a run for it before. Minho is a memorable example of that. There’s nowhere to run. They’re trapped by the Maze walls.

Except –

“He’s going for the Maze!” says little Chuckie, fifteen years old.

 _That_ spurs the Gladers to action. Some of them start to run for the Doors, shouting for the Greenie to stop. But it’s no use. Newt can see his dark head moving across the grassy field of the Glade, as swift as the wind. Even without his head start, they’d never catch up to him.

Newt watches, rooted to the spot and completely stupefied, as the Newbie runs right through the Doors, disappearing into the Maze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to kudos!
> 
> XD


End file.
